The Leather Remembers

It was just a piece of leather, stretched over a bench press bed.

Old, broken, and cracked, it was 'bout to be declared dead.

All those men and women, they lay upon its skin,

They breathed and they pushed, just trying to be thin.

Their work and their sweat, their blood and their tears,

Their oils keeping this leather plush all those long, hard years.

Why did they do it? Why work so hard?

They were sick of being called a fat tub of lard.

Some o' those folks are dead,

Some have families and dogs named Fred.

Some of them gave up,

Some said, "never enough"

The leather remembers.

The leather remembers when you couldn't lift just the bar,

The leather remembers when you could lift a whole car.

No matter who laid on this old cow's hide,

The leather remembers who they were inside.

The years of use wore an impression, an outline, a silhouette,

of every man

and every woman.

The leather doesn't care if you're white, or black, or brown, or green.

The leather gains from you a nice, pretty sheen.

Upon the gym wall the leather is stretched,

With the impression of you, the impression of me, and the impression of the whole human race,

Everything except your individual face.